He Goes To The Water
by StillWaters1
Summary: When Danny Williams grieves, he goes to the water. And is completely still.


**Title:** He Goes To The Water

 **Author:** Still Waters

 **Fandom:** Hawaii Five-0

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Hawaii Five-0. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

 **Summary:** When Danny Williams grieves, he goes to the water. And is completely still.

 **Written:** 4/27/15. Edited 5/11/15.

 **Notes:** An edit and re-post of a previous piece "They Go To The Water" which bookended two fandoms. I went back to nitpick one or two things that were bothering me and ended up splitting it into two separate stories. This is my first time writing Danny - I truly hope I did the character justice. Thank you for reading and thank you to those who supported the first version.

* * *

Danny Williams is known for his movement.

For exuberance, for displays of passion in all things. He is a man with strong opinions, even stronger senses of right and wrong, and the unwavering loyalty of the dogs he so easily bonds with. He overflows with words; an encyclopedia of stories, a dictionary of oddities, a thesaurus of emotive expression. His face is an open window of emotion, his tone innumerable octaves of feeling, his speech a course in musical theory - from despondent single word quarter notes to rapid-fire staccato 64th note rants. He has the expressive hands of a tri-state area native with a rich oral storytelling tradition, of a conductor immersed in the flow of an orchestra, hands that augment and punctuate and elevate, hands the envy of many a sign language learner. For him, anger is words and hands – words tumbling breathlessly over other words, or carefully chosen and pared down; words delivered red-faced and shouting, or breathed soft, bewildered, and hurt. Hands scrub across his face and through his hair, go to pockets, hips, and rest on his gun with the comfortable familiarity of training; hands wave and point and punctuate - a flurry of gesticulation. He is vocabulary and movement and tone and anything _but_ stillness. A supernova's deafening explosion, with all the showy brightness of language and gesture and passion.

And when Danny Williams grieves….he goes to the water.

And is completely still.

He may not have chosen Hawaii, but Danny has always lived near an ocean. The wide open expanse of water stretching thousands of miles soothes his claustrophobia, just as the white noise of waves on shore quiets his mind. He is a worrier, a protector, a man whose words and hands are in a constant motion that comes nowhere near the raging tsunami of thoughts and feelings in his head, the ones that trap him with insomnia at night and constrict his chest into breathless panic attacks during the day. But when he goes to the water…Danny can rest. Be still. And let the beach move for him.

Danny is a cop who has seen countless losses, has delivered the intimate news to strangers whose faces pale at his presence. He comes to the water in his own losses, his own grief, where the crash of the waves drowns out the cruel litany of second-guesses, 'what-ifs' and 'what-nows'. His raw eyes and tear-streaked face are taken up by wind and ocean-spray on his face, sheltering him from unwelcome prying. His hands rest lightly on concrete barriers, on cool, worn rocks, and splintered benches, finding purchase and grounding in their stillness. He swallows ocean breezes instead of projecting endless words, the taste of saltwater and seaweed and sand a calming balm on his working throat. The wind howls his grief through rocky crevices, the waves pound his anger into the sand, the birds cry 'why' as they circle overhead, and the crackling of the foam left behind receding waves speaks words of comfort in languages as long dead as the countless people whose grief the ocean has witnessed since humanity began. And for a man who has been uprooted thousands of miles from home, a man who counts Steve McGarrett, danger-magnet and control-freak, as both best friend and partner, Danny comes to the water and lets go of his little daily stands against chaos – lets the wind take his styled hair into all the churning directions of his mind, lets it whip his tie with righteous fury, grab for purchase at his dress clothes and snake under cuffs and collars to rub raw against the naked hurt of loss just under the surface. The waves and birds are his words, the wind lashing his clothing and tossing his hair, his gesticulating hands. The beach, the ocean, are movement, and Danny is blessedly still.

Just like the East Coast, there is an unspoken rule at the water – people respect one another's solitude, whether they are out in the open or tucked in a hidden cove. That continuity, that familiarity alone, is almost enough to bring peace to the pain.

And when his clothes are rumpled, tie hanging loose and twisted over one shoulder, face sticky with dried tears and salt water, eyes burning with emotion and windburn, hair half-obscuring his vision, breathing as unrestricted as his thoughts are uncluttered…when the world seems a little less confined and painful…Danny goes back to the world that knows him for his movement. He gets in the driver's seat, finger-combs his hair, straightens his tie.

And feels lighter for it.


End file.
